“Turns out Daniel Weston’s memorial service was this morning, so I took her over there. And then our friend Detective Marcus showed up.”
Bree grimaced. “At the church? Why?”
“The autopsy showed that Daniel was murdered.”
“Oh, shoot. That sucks. How’d your mother take the news? I’ll assume Marcus didn’t arrest her.”
“Not yet, but I bet he’d like to. Apparently there’s no one else who makes a promising suspect. She seemed sad, I guess. I took her back to Rachel’s—she said she wanted a bit more time on her own. I’ll call her tomorrow morning. So, you need me here?”
“Of course. Grab a bag and let’s get to work.”
7
Even after putting in her fair share of picking the day before, Meg still felt guilty about taking time from the orchard. She was sitting in the kitchen when Bree came down on Friday morning. “Look, is it really okay for me to take today off? I can come back later in the afternoon.”
Bree waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. You need time with your mom, and it won’t hurt the apples to wait a day.”
“You aren’t just saying that?”
“Hey, you don’t trust me? I know what I’m doing. It’ll be fine, and we’ve got it covered. Will your mom be coming back here?”
Meg shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so. She’s been so odd these last few days, I really don’t know what she’s thinking. I’ll ask her again today—after we’ve done some of those girly things you were talking about.”
Bree flashed her a grin. “You do that. See you later!” Meg hurried out the door.
Meg found she was in a strange mood as she drove the familiar route to Rachel’s. Did she want her mother to stay with her? She should, she knew. But as she’d told Bree, Elizabeth was not herself at the moment, and until Marcus found out who had killed Daniel Weston, Elizabeth would be under a cloud. Combine that with the erratic pressures of the harvest, and it was a recipe for friction. Still, she was going to ask.
She arrived at the bed-and-breakfast just after eleven, and parked by her mother’s car. There were no others parked there—were all of Rachel’s other guests out admiring leaves or installing offspring in dorm rooms? Meg made her way to the front door and rang the old-fashioned bell; footsteps followed, and then her mother opened the door.
“Oh, Meg. I wondered if it might be you, but I thought you would call first.”
“Sorry.” Great—already she was defensive. “I thought you might like to go to lunch. There’s a very nice bistro in the middle of town, and after we eat, we could walk around a little, maybe see Emily Dickinson’s house?” Meg laid her peace offering at her mother’s feet.
“Sounds perfect.” Elizabeth smiled tentatively. Olive branch accepted apparently.
When they arrived at the town center, though, Meg realized that the place was crawling with mid-forties couples, all of whom looked disoriented: she had forgotten about the impact of the multiple school openings in the area. She snagged a parking space just as someone else was leaving and counted herself lucky. As they climbed out of the car, Meg asked her mother, “Have you already seen much of Amherst?”
Her mother shrugged. “Not really.” She didn’t add anything more.
All right, if that’s the way she was going to play it. “Well, Amherst College is over there,” Meg began, pointing. “UMass is that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction. “Emily Dickinson’s house is a block or so that way, and the restaurant I mentioned is right there across the street.”
“It looks charming, dear,” her mother said.
Meg fed the parking meter and escorted her mother across the street. She was dismayed to find the tiny vestibule crowded with people, all of whom had apparently had the same thought about lunch. She was about to turn away when she heard her name called.
“Meg?”
She peered past the group to see her friend and orchard mentor Christopher Ramsdell at a table at the rear—with Frances Clark, her real estate agent from Granford. Interesting . Meg recalled that the two of them had also shared a table at the restaurant opening earlier in the week.
“Won’t you join us?” Christopher beckoned. Several people in front of her in line turned to glare. Meg ignored them.
“We’d love to.” Before Elizabeth could protest, she dragged her mother over to the table. “Mother, this is Frances Clark and Christopher Ramsdell, a professor at UMass who used to oversee the orchard. Christopher, Frances, this is my mother, Elizabeth Corey. She’s visiting for a few days. Are you sure there’s room at the table?”
“We shall make room. Albert won’t mind—I come here often.” Christopher gestured toward the maître d’ with a smile; the maître d’ quickly found two spare chairs and arranged them around the table. It was a close fit, but it worked. Meg and her mother sat down, and Christopher beamed at them. “There we go! Would you care for something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps? Is this a special occasion?”
Not the way you’d imagine, Meg thought. “Maybe one glass,” she replied, looking at her mother, who appeared absorbed by the list of specials posted on the chalkboard above the small bar. “Mother?”
“Oh, that would be fine,” Elizabeth answered absently.
“We were thinking of doing some sightseeing later,” Meg said. “Mother hasn’t spent much time around here.”
Frances cocked her head at Elizabeth. “So you and Meg own the Granford property jointly?”
Meg turned to Elizabeth. “Frances is a real estate agent, Mother. She was going to sell the house, before I decided to stay.”
“Ah.” Elizabeth nodded. “This would not be a good time to think about selling, would it, Frances?”
“That’s the truth. But if you’re looking for a condo or something, so you can visit with your daughter, I could find you something nice.”
Meg’s mother laughed briefly. “I don’t think that’s necessary at the moment. Christopher, what do you recommend from the menu?”
Meg noted her mother’s adroit diversion as she studied the menu herself. A waiter approached and took their orders.
Talk drifted to the orchard. “And how is your picking going, Meg?” Christopher asked. “I’m a bit surprised to see you here today.”
“Bree gave me the day off—I gather we’re waiting for the next batch to ripen. Hurry up and wait, isn’t it?” When Elizabeth looked quizzical, Meg reminded her, “Christopher managed the orchard for years. Bree was one of his students.”
“One of my best, in fact. Are the pickers working out?” Christopher turned to Elizabeth. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there is a long tradition of Jamaican pickers around here. I had hoped that Meg’s transition would be smooth. Has it been, my dear?”
“I think so. Raynard is very good at keeping things moving, and nobody has yelled at me yet, even though I’ve made a couple of bloopers. Thank goodness it’s a good crop.”
“It is. And you were lucky that the hailstorm missed you. Perhaps the gods are smiling on your endeavors. Mrs. Corey, what do you think of your daughter’s new profession?”
“Elizabeth, please. I think she’s quite brave to jump into something new with so little experience. I believe she’s mentioned how glad she is to have you as a resource.”
Christopher looked pleased. “I’ve been more than happy to help. After all, I’ve been involved with her—your—orchard for a long time, and I feel quite attached to it. She has some wonderful old varieties there.”
As their meal arrived, Meg asked, “Christopher, Frances, what did you think of Gran’s?”
“I for one am thrilled,” Frances said. “There’s finally a place I can take potential buyers. Nothing like feeding people a good meal to put them in a spending mood.”
“I thought the food was excellent,” Christopher agreed. “I will be happy to return when time permits. Perhaps we could arrange a special event associated with the launch of the new building? That’s still several
months off, so that will allow your young chefs time to settle in.”
“I’m sure they’d love it, Christopher. That’s a wonderful idea. By the way, how’s the construction project going?” Meg said. “Mother, Christopher is overseeing the construction of a new research facility on campus, which will explore alternative strategies for pest control. He’s going to be the director when it’s completed.”
“Quite well, all things considered. The building should be ready by the end of the year, assuming the weather cooperates. Are you familiar with the practice of integrated pest management, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth shook her head, looking amused. “I’m not. Tell me why I should be.”
Genial conversation carried them through the rest of the meal. Elizabeth appeared interested in what Christopher had to say, although Meg wasn’t sure whether her interest was genuine or she was merely being polite. The meal wound down with coffee and individual ramekins of crème brûlée. Christopher checked his watch. “Gracious, I must be getting back. Let this meal be my treat, in honor of your visit, Elizabeth. Frances, it was lovely to see you, and I’ll call soon. Good-bye, ladies!” He rose, had a word with the maître d’, then departed.
Frances rose, too. “Well, I’d better get back to the office, in case anyone happens to call. And if you’re wondering, there are plenty of people who are looking for a bargain these days, and some of them can even get mortgages. I keep busy! Good to see you, Meg, Elizabeth. Maybe we can get together before you go?” Frances looked directly at Elizabeth.
“I’d like that, but I’m not sure what my plans are. Meg knows where to reach you, I assume?”
“Of course. Bye now.”
Meg and her mother were left alone at the table. “I guess we should go. There are plenty of people waiting for a table,” Meg ventured. She looked at her mother. “Do you feel like seeing Emily Dickinson’s house?”
“If we can walk. That was a delightful meal, but I should let it settle just a bit. You said it wasn’t far?”
“Just down that street. Are you a fan?”
“Of Emily Dickinson? Actually I’m not sure. I know her more well-circulated poems, and her general reputation, but I’m afraid that’s the extent of my knowledge. I would enjoy seeing her home. Is that the ladies’ room over there?”
“It is. I’ll wait outside for you, if you don’t mind.”
As Elizabeth went toward the back of the restaurant, Meg headed out the door and intercepted Frances, who was still near the entrance. “So, twice in one week? Are you and Christopher . . . ?”
Frances smiled. “Maybe. He’s such a lovely man, if a wee bit older than I am. And you and Seth looked pretty cozy yourselves the other night.”
“I guess. Oh, if you happen to get together with my mother again, I haven’t managed to tell her about Seth.”
“Why ever not? He’s unattached, owns his own business, and he’s an all-around great guy. What’s not to like?”
“I know, I know, but I’d like to explain it to her in my own time. Okay?”
“No problem. Ah, here she is. Good-bye again, Elizabeth.” Frances turned and strode down the street toward her car.
“You ready, Mother? I should just feed the meter before we go—I wouldn’t want to rush.”
“That’s fine, dear. No hurry.”
Easy for her to say, Meg thought. She didn’t have an orchard to run.
8
“You didn’t have a chance to see Emily Dickinson’s house . . . before?” Meg asked as they followed Main Street toward the large painted brick house down the way, ignoring the other pedestrians who jostled their way past them on the sidewalk. Might as well confront this now.
“You mean, did I see it with Daniel?” her mother countered.
“Yes, I guess I do. I understand Daniel Weston was a well-known Dickinson scholar.”
“So he said,” Elizabeth replied in a neutral tone. “I’m not particularly familiar with the contemporary academic environment, and I took his statement at face value. Although we did spend some time talking about Emily, and what she meant to the town of Amherst.”
“He was hosting a symposium on Dickinson and Whitman this weekend. Did he mention that?”
“No, we didn’t talk about specifics of what he was working on at the moment. We had a lot of catching up to do. In fact, we talked about you quite a bit.”
“Me?” Meg was surprised. “He’d never even met me.”
Elizabeth was silent for a moment, studying her daughter’s face. “Meg, can we wait for a bit to talk about all this?”
Meg straightened her shoulders. “Mother, I would be happy to, but the fact that Detective Marcus has talked to you twice now makes me nervous.”
“Are you accusing me of having something to do with Daniel Weston’s death? That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree, but Detective Marcus doesn’t know you as well as I do. And your presence here at this particular moment is one suspicious fact that sticks out like a sore thumb, as he keeps reminding us.”
“I suppose.” Elizabeth shook her head as if to clear it. “Please, Meg—can’t we just do something pleasant for a little while? It’s a beautiful day, and a charming town, and I’d like to do something nice with my daughter. Please?”
More evasion, but Meg didn’t have the heart to press. “For now, all right. But you’re going to have to tell me the whole story sooner or later, and it would help me to help you if it was sooner.”
Elizabeth smiled sadly. “All right, dear, I promise.”
“When?”
“Maybe tomorrow. I need a little more time to get my thoughts in order. And to grieve for Daniel.”
Meg was nonplussed by the last remark. Grieve for someone she hadn’t seen in decades? Or grieve for a past now lost, for things that might have been? What had Daniel been to her, and had he been looking to rekindle it? Had she? “All right, deal.”
“Now, may we please go pay homage to the Belle of Amherst?”
“See, you do know something about Emily,” Meg replied as they continued along the sidewalk. After a minute or so they came to the front of the house. Sitting on a small rise, it was a solidly built brick building, its windows flanked by wooden shutters, its front door guarded by a columned portico, the roof crowned by a windowed cupola.
“A handsome place, although it looks a little bare,” Elizabeth said, studying it.
“The town had to cut down the trees in front—some of them were diseased. It’s not like Emily or her family had planted them originally—they were twentieth-century additions. In fact, the land across the street”—Meg pointed—“was open farmland when the Dickinsons lived here, and of course they would have had a very different view. Shall we go in? They have guided tours.”
“Certainly. Have you been here before?”
“Just once. I keep meaning to come back, and to read a little more about Emily, but I never seem to have the time.”
“I can understand that,” her mother said.
Can you? Meg wondered, but decided to hold her tongue. She didn’t want to disrupt their fragile peace.
They went around to the back of the house, where they paid for tickets and were admitted. “The next tour starts in ten minutes. Please enjoy the gift shop while you’re waiting,” the cheerful desk attendant said.
Elizabeth wandered into a small adjoining room. “Good heavens, was this the kitchen?” she said. “It’s so . . . primitive!”
“It was a simpler time, Mother. And Emily seemed to manage—there are even some of her recipes that survive, although I’m sure she had hired help.”
“I should hope so. It’s so hard to imagine the work it took, a century and more ago, just to keep a family fed and clean. I definitely prefer the modern era. What is there to see in the house?”
“Emily’s bedroom, a few pieces of her clothing, a view of the cemetery. Then there’s her brother’s house next door. That’s open for tours as well.” The last time Meg had visited, she’d found
the docent well informed and very enthusiastic about the poet, but she would let her mother find that out for herself.
It was close to an hour later when the tour concluded in the small side garden, complete with a couple of young apple trees—Baldwins, Meg guessed. As the docent and the other people on the tour scattered, Meg and her mother drifted toward a bench. The afternoon sun was warm, the air crisp; they had eaten well, virtuously exercised both their bodies and their minds, and Meg was as well pleased as she could hope to be, given the looming harvest and Detective Marcus—who, as she thought about it, also loomed. They sat.
“It’s lovely here, isn’t it? How very strange that this one frail and frightened woman could have had such a lasting impact on our literary culture,” Elizabeth said slowly.
“I suppose it is, come to think of it,” Meg answered. “Although as you heard, Emily didn’t set out to change the world. She didn’t even let many people see her work, and it wasn’t until after her death that most of it was published. She wrote for herself mainly, and that was enough.”
Elizabeth sighed quietly, her eyes on the house across the street. “I’ve never felt I had that kind of talent, I’m afraid. Nor the compulsion to make my voice heard. It’s not for me to live an inspired life. Wasn’t it Thoreau who talked about ‘lives of quiet desperation’?”
Meg nodded. “Another Massachusetts writer, although far less self-effacing than Emily. And here we are visiting her house, and you can see where Thoreau’s cabin was on Walden Pond in Concord. They still influence our lives. It may sound strange, but I think I’ve tapped into that kind of historic continuity. I’m living in a house that one of our great-greats built two hundred and fifty years ago. That’s something I never expected.”
“Maybe you didn’t, but I would guess that great-great assumed his family would remain there forever. It would have been far easier for him to envision that than to foresee the reality. How different is what you do in your orchard from what he would have known?”
A Killer Crop Page 7
